


My Diamonds Stay With You

by Nalane13



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, James Bond Being James Bond, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Post-Skyfall, Pre-Movie: SPECTRE (2015), Protective James Bond, Q is not a Damsel in Distress (James Bond)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28993356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nalane13/pseuds/Nalane13
Summary: Q is unwillingly drawn into the dark orbit of a former 00 agent turned Minister of Parliament who is determined to use him for his own ends while turning Q against everything he loves: England, MI-6, and even James Bond himself.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I don't own any of the rights to these characters.
> 
> I apologize for any mistakes I make on English culture as I'm drawing on memories of the 3 years I lived there after graduate school and copious internet research.
> 
> I don't have a beta so sorry if you find any spelling or grammar errors. Dammit Jim I'm a scientist not an English major!  
> I'm writing as fast as I can but I just started a new job so please bear with me!
> 
> Update 3/15/21 - The non-con starts in Chapter 9. Once I find the end of it I'll post a safe jump point here

"My diamonds leave with you, You're never gonna hear my heart break, Never gonna move in dark ways, Baby, you're so cruel, My diamonds leave with you"

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“Of course, the mission was a bloody failure!” Bond snarled as he slammed the charred remains of a communication unit onto the cold metal surface of one of the many work tables littering Q branch. He still reeked of nearly a week spent in the field. The stench of the less than savory alleys and sewers of Khartoum mingled with sweat and gunpowder was ensuring that his personal space was well respected by the technicians hovering around him waiting for him to relieve himself of the rest of his issued equipment kit. Well, it was either the smell or the fact that he was dripping a steady trickle of blood from what was clearly a re-opened knife wound in his thigh, the crimson stream slowly creating a puddle on the concrete floor. 

“They knew we were coming Q!” He ranted, “Somehow they knew. They were waiting for me and now the minister’s daughter is dead.” The mission had been a cock up from the start. The ex-wife and teenage daughter of Minister Maxwell Levy, from the House of Commons, had been abducted ten days ago while touring an aid camp in South Sudan. The suspected perpetrators had been the Sharia Liberation Front (SLF,) a terrorist organization that had arisen in the area eighteen months ago out of the remnants of a number of other defeated Islamic State factions around the region. Their participation had been confirmed when the minister’s ex-wife had been tossed out of a car in front of a police station in Khartoum forty-eight hours later bound and gagged with a ransom demand for the return of their daughter pinned to the front of her now disgraced Burberry jacket.

Unusually, that ransom demand did not contain a request for funding or arms. What the SLF stated that they wanted was the support of Minister Levy’s newly formed English National Party for a new proposition which aimed to withdraw British support from the various warring factions in Sub-Saharan Africa in favor of a renewed, post Brexit, focus on funding for issues at home as opposed to abroad. Parliament was deadlocked on the proposal with the members of English National Party expected to provide the deciding votes. Levy had hosted several recent press conferences speaking out against the bill, publicly leveraging his prior experience as an officer in the Special Air Service to explain why Britain needed to remain a leader in promoting democracy and as he put it “good British values” abroad.

Less well known to the public was exactly what Minister Levy had done for the five years after his separation from the SAS, his resume said that he had “acted as a private consultant for numerous defence contractors”, in reality he had spent that time in the arms of MI-6 going by the code name of 002. Thus, when Levy’s ex-wife crawled bruised and bloodied up the steps of that Khartoum police station to call the embassy it set off a chain of events that had the direct line from the Prime Minister ringing on M’s desk within the hour.

007 had never been the agent intended to lead the recovery the mission. The African continent was usually 009’s assigned area of operation but she had been injured in a rather bad hit and run incident on the M-25 near Epping the week prior and was currently accepting her two weeks of light duty with all the grace of a particularly pissed off tiger. Thus, a bare handful of hours after he had touched down from busting an arms smuggling ring in Prague, Bond was briefed, outfitted, and winging his way back across the continent. 

Things hadn’t gone smoothly from that point forward. Though he had no idea how, Bond had been made in the airport from nearly the moment of his arrival. This rendered his prearranged lodgings in the city unusable and things had only gone down hill from there. Four days, a car chase, and one not so brief use of enhance interrogation techniques later, he had tracked the minister’s daughter down to where the SLF were holding her in a flat above a back-alley chemist’s shop. When he had attempted to extract her the terrorists holding her did the unthinkable, less than two seconds after Bond kicked in the door they shot her at point blank in the head, ensuring their own demise followed equally as quickly. After that it been an exercise in tediousness to get Bond out of the country while avoiding not only the SLF teams searching for him but also members of the Khartoum Police Department who had somehow been alerted to the murders. Within a day footage of the incident, from an unknown source, had been posted on YouTube with the glaring headline “MP’s Daughter Killed in British Government Raid Gone Wrong”. M was still working on damage control.

Bond listed against the side of the table, clearly attempting to hold weight off of his injured leg. “It doesn’t make any sense Q!” He railed, “Why would they shoot her? She was their only insurance that Levy would vote the way they wanted.” 

It was these words that finally made the Quartermaster, standing stiffly at his computer console, his shoulders a story of barely concealed defeat, turn around. Like Bond, his face showed all of the wear of days without sleep. A beard was beginning to fuzz the edges of his jaw and dark circles painted the undersides of his eyes. His jumper was bunched up, the shirt underneath it partially untucked from his grey slacks, a screaming affront to the usual natty boffin image he preferred to present to the world. 

“I don’t know 007.” He said, his voice a rasp of sorrow. “I don’t know. But we’re looking into it. All of it.” He shook himself slightly and then straightened up, eyes losing their far away look. “James, I do believe you’re bleeding on my floor.”

“Fuck!” Bond shouted and banged the table he was leaning against, scaring the minion who had been approaching him gingerly with a proffered mug of tea, thinking that such a soothing tactic as was usually applied to his overlord the Quartermaster might, just this once, be used on his boss’s favorite 00 agent instead. The minion scuttled back into the crowd just as the elevator doors dinged open followed by the ominous click, click, click of heels that signaled the arrival of Eve Moneypenny into Q branch like an avenging goddess. 

“007!” She snapped. “You’re supposed to be up in medical and you’re due in M’s office for debriefing in an hour. This has been a bloody disaster. It’s made front page news of the BBC for Christ’s sake!” 

She looked around, taking in the funerial mood of Q branch, and the steadily progressing list of the agent in front of her, her tone softening. “Come on. I’ll escort you up.” She turned to Q. “Go home Quartermaster. You’ve been awake even longer than he has. I’ll make sure you see him after.” 

Q stepped forward for a second, one hand reaching out to snag the greasy corner of Bond’s sleeve while the other carded through the stiff hairs at the back of the agent’s neck briefly pressing their foreheads together. “I’ll come by your flat later,” he breathed and then pulled back to give a threatening glare around his branch, only to find Eve and all of his minions intently looking anywhere but at the pair, one particular minion had even begun attempting to casually whistle a tune. “Get out of here 007.” He ordered and Q branch sprang back to life around him, minions returning to their battle stations. Moneypenny took Bond by the arm and began to lead him towards the elevator. “R you have the controls.” Q groaned “I’m going home to bed.”

~~~

That statement was only partially a lie. Q did go home briefly. Just long enough to feed Turing and Lovelace, his cats, and to throw a change of clothes into his bag. He almost nodded off on the tube but the blaring, tinny noise of K-pop from the mobile phone of the passenger next to him, who had clearly forgotten his head phones, helped to keep him awake. He let himself into Bond’s spacious but empty feeling flat, helped himself to a shower, and was sprawled across the pillows asleep within minutes.

It was just before three in the morning when the door of the flat cracked open soundlessly admitting its owner, now clean and clad in a standard medical issue light grey jogging set. Without a word he limped across the space and stopped, staring at the pale young man on his bed, wrapped in moonlight and his sheets, a riot of dark hair shedding shadows across sharp cheekbones. With a slight smile James collapsed onto the bed and fell quickly asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

A little after eight the next morning Q was awoken by the harsh buzz of his phone on the bedside table, blearily he sat up, grabbing the slim rectangle and bringing it closer for his sleep muddled eyes to decipher. It was a brief text from R letting him know that she had assigned responsibility for the day shift to S and that the entire branch was under strict instructions from Eve not to let him report for work that morning. A second text arrived shortly on the heels of the first containing only a chipper “I hope you both enjoy your day off!” and a winky face emoji. Q groaned and tossed the phone back onto the table, rolling over to look at the man next to him. 

A thin glint of blue beneath slitted lids revealed that James was awake and observing him. “Who was that?” He rumbled sleepily.

“Just R,” Q replied, throwing a hand over his face. “Eve has barred me from Q branch for the day and she wanted to wish both of us a happy day off.” 

Bond chuckled hoarsely. “Of course, she would.” He shuffled towards Q across the bed, pulling the younger man into his arms. “We’d be remiss not to make the most of her well wishes, now wouldn’t we?” He asked, slightly muffled, into the hollow of Q’s shoulder. 

“Bond!” Q admonished. “You’re injured. Medical probably has you on restriction right now.”

He felt Bond smile against his collar bone. “I’m sure you’ll be gentle with me,” the older man growled, before flipping them both over so Q’s back was pressed against the mattress, enjoying the slight gasp of surprise that the move elicited. 

“I most certainly will try.” Q replied in an attempt at primness that stuttered off into a gasp as Bond’s mouth began to work at the soft spot underneath his ear. “Besides, now we have the whole day…”

~~~

It was well after lunch time when Bond did something rare. He reached across Q to grab the remote and he flipped on the telly. Q looked up from his phone inquiringly at the other man, then appeared to remember the piece of toast that he absentmindedly held in his other hand and took a bite. 

“The vote on the proposition is today” Bond said as he flipped over to the BBC. 

“Oh,” Q mumbled around a mouth full of crumbs, turning to better see the screen.

A woman in a red pant suit was broadcasting with the Westminster Palace behind her. The dull murmur of an unseen crowd echoed around her as her words filtered through to the viewers, “In an unprecedented turn of events all members of the English National Party voted against the proposition on the docket today, ensuring that British funding will continue to flow to various defence and aid missions on the African continent. Minister Levy, the head of the party, speaking to the House of Commons before the vote, said that he could think of no better way to honor the memory of his late daughter than to ensure that Britain worked towards a more safe and stable environment for all families in that region… ”

She trailed off as the clamor of the crowd behind her rose to a roar and the camera panned across to show members of the English National Party, MP Levy in the lead, begin descending the steps of the palace towards their waiting cars, stopping for a few minutes to talk with several reporters along the way as the police ensure that the cordon holding back members of the public remained intact. 

Maxwell Levy was a tall man in his mid-40s, with coal black hair, piercing grey eyes, and a smile that might have seemed charming to some, but to Q, who spent every day navigating around 00s, reeked of practiced manipulation. His Gieves & Hawkes suit was clearly bespoke, custom made to fit the muscular frame that he had kept up since his days at MI-6. But it wasn’t these things which held Q’s attention the most, it was the way the man moved. He didn’t so much walk as he prowled. His every movement a masterpiece of carefully directed energy and intent. With a shock in his gut Q realized that despite looking nothing alike, for that factor alone, Maxwell Levy reminded him intensely of the man sitting at his side. 

He turned slightly to look at James whose blue eyes were raptly following the movement on the television. There it was he thought, that perfect stillness, energy entirely channeled into a desired form. It gave one the feeling at times that he wasn’t really a man at all, but something rather like a holster, sculpted leather over gun metal, a perfectly manufactured façade for concealed violence. 

When Q had first started working down in the R&D labs he had initially assumed, based on his limited exposure to 00s that they would all be like that, all move like that. But they hadn’t been. 001 turned his corners sharply like a military man and stood hands always clasped behind his back like he couldn’t quite remember that his days of parade rest were over. 006 lounged on any available surface at any time, lionlike in his conservation of energy but with considerably more good humor. 009 swaggered into any situation, head and shoulders always thrown back, stance inviting all comers to take her on. 

The longer he worked in Q branch the more Q had come to realize that none of them were like 007. There was no doubting, from the minute he entered a room, what James Bond was, and that was a weapon writ in human form. At least, that was what Q had thought, until the moment he saw Maxwell Levy, formerly known as 002, stride down the steps of parliament. 

He tore his eyes away from James and turned them back to the television. On screen the MP had approached the first car. The door to the back seat was being held open by what must have been his driver. After a brief conversation with the man, Levy walked away from the car towards the barricade which held back the members of the public, clearly meaning to prolong his media photo op by taking some time to talk with the common folk. Behind him the driver closed the car door, and began to slowly maneuver it out of the crowd along a narrow corridor cleared by the police. He hadn’t pulled away from the curb and made it more than 300 meters when vehicle exploded.

On the couch both men jerked back and whipped around to stare at each other. “Shit.” Bond cursed, turning again to briefly glance at the TV, but there was nothing of value there to see. The BBC man had dropped his camera, whether out of fright or because he had been injured in the blast Bond couldn’t tell. While it was still operating, all that could be seen were masses of running feet and there, in the bottom left corner of the frame the sleeve of the presenter’s pantsuit was visible, slowly becoming a darker, more distinctive shade of red. 

Q set down his half-eaten piece of toast on the arm of the couch and rose, readjusting his glasses. “I think we’d better go into work after all,” He said.


	3. Chapter 3

What became known as the Westminster Bombing resulted in the deaths of 17 bystanders, including the BBC presenter. Within hours the SLF were claiming credit for the incident and making further, unspecified threats against MP Levy, who all agreed had been the intended target of the attack. 

Maxwell Levy, had survived the attempt on his life with only a few light shrapnel wounds and in the days after the bombing he was everywhere. He rallied for increased defence spending to promote the stabilization of the African continent and co-authored future propositions for stricter immigration controls. He was photographed laying flowers on his daughter’s grave and attending funerals to grieve with the families of those killed in the bombing. Throughout the halls of parliament, the rumours began, escaping to be amplified by the media, Levy’s star was rising fast, he would be pushed as the next Secretary of State for Defence some said, others insisted he was on a straight shot to be the next Prime Minister, all agreed that he was certainly a force to be reckoned with. 

After a second failed attempt on his life, in which an assailant attempted to stab him to death in the lobby of the residential building in which his flat was located, it was decided by the PM that a more aggressive stance must be taken not only on ensuring Levy’s personal safety but on pinpointing the exact SLF cell sourcing these attacks within London. After much debate MI-6 was given the lead on the two operations. M was told, in no uncertain terms by the highest levels of government, that failure to protect MP Levy or those he held dear, would not be tolerated again. 

Thus, exactly two weeks after they sat next to each other on Bond’s couching watching in disbelief as the bombing occurred, Q and 007 found themselves part of an MI-6 team tasked with securing Levy’s flat and building a plan to ensure that he was guarded around the clock against any future attacks.  
~~~  
Q sighed and pushed his glasses further up his nose as he glanced at the lap top screen. “Glass break sensor five still isn’t reporting in,” he told the technician at his elbow. “Go reset it again and if you can’t get it to sync with the rest of the system, we’ll replace it.” He and a team of Q branch’s finest were upgrading the security in Levy’s Hammersmith penthouse while Bond and a small handful of other field agents assessed the rest of the building and the surrounding area. Q ran a tired hand through his hair and turned to look at the rest of the flat. It could have been an advert in GQ he mused. Floor to ceiling windows looked southeast catching the last of the day’s dying light reflecting off of the Thames and channeling it inside to glance off of the white marble and stainless-steel interior. Creamy sofas dominated the center of the space accented by darker shades of grey. The paintings on the walls could have come from any post-modern gallery in London. A Steinway piano, tucked into one side of the room, might have presented a small flash of personality but its cover was closed, and to Q’s eyes it seemed rarely played. Overall, Q thought, the flat had a curiously sterile feel to it. 

He supposed in some way it should remind him of Bond’s but he was surprised to find that it didn’t. He hadn’t realized that he had become accustomed to some of the little tells that James left when he was in residence. The discarded socks by the side of the bed, a towel tossed askew on a bathroom hook, the box of Earl Grey and the chipped mug he left out on the counter even though he rarely drank tea. Q shook his head slightly and smiled to himself before turning back to his laptop on the kitchen counter. He had pulled up the security camera live feeds for the building and was scrolling through them when he felt a dangerous electric energy loom into place behind him. 

It was perhaps a sign of how much the last few years had changed him that his first instinct was to relax into James’ presence. Eyes still on the computer screen he leaned back slightly as he said “All done checking the roof then? We ought to stop on the way back and get curry after this.”   
He stiffened immediately as breath tickled his skin and a velvet baritone rumbled in his ear, “There’s a blind spot on the security camera in the parking garage.”  
~~~  
Q resisted the urge to whirl around, throttling a surge of panic and dragging it back behind his breastbone. Shoulders stiff and posture erect he turned slowly to find himself chest to chest with the Maxwell Levy.   
“You must be the new Quartermaster.” Levy murmured, leaning further into Q’s space, forcing the smaller man to take half a step back until he heard the gentle thud of Q’s back hitting the edge of the counter. His eyes roved hungrily up and down the younger man before him. “I had heard that they had found someone exceptional.”  
The panic behind Q’s breastbone edged into the beginnings of anger, straightening his spine even as another part of him stiffened in an unwilling response to the dark frisson the other man’s presence was sending dancing across his skin. He tipped his head back to meet the Levy’s eyes, dear god the man was tall, and put on his best Quartermaster voice, clipped and tight, “Good evening Minister. We’ve almost finished securing your residence.”

Levy leaned forward, resting his hands on the counter on either side of Q’s slim figure. “Minister sounds so formal,” he drawled, smirking down at his captive “Why don’t you call me something a bit easier on the tongue, how about 002?” 

The anger had fizzed into full blown rage now, burning hot and bright in Q’s chest and shining out his hazel eyes, “I most certainly will not!” He snapped. “002 is currently in Macau.” With a sharp shove he pushed against the other man’s chest with both hands. The fear flickered again for a moment as he felt Levy resist the move, then give way as Q spun out his grasp putting space between them. 

They faced each other, eyes locked, tension crackling between them across the polished floor of the flat for what seemed like an eternity trapped in a moment before the clearing of a throat from the direction of the door made Q jump. Bond melted out of the growing shadows. “The roof is secured.” He growled at Q before turning and offering the other man a mirthless grin. “Maxwell,” He said, “It’s been ages.”

“007!” The MP exclaimed, body loosening as his veneer of civility returned. “Look at you. You old dog. Still doing tricks for M then? I’d have figured they’d have long since put you out on the farm.”

“Well, not all of us have a trust fund and a budding career in politics to fall back on.” Bond retorted. He laid a possessive hand on Q’s elbow. “If you’ll excuse us, we’re expected back to brief Mallory. You’ll have a team of agents for 24-hour coverage, reporting to me, as well as a technician back at Q branch monitoring the security feeds. You know the drill.” 

He began to propel Q towards the hallway, stopping just shy of the doorway to lean back, voice lowering, “And Maxwell, do try to remember that we’re watching you now and you no longer possess the immunity that MI-6 was known to afford its 00s.” 

“As if I could ever forget,” Q heard the minister softly reply.

As they walked down the hallway towards the lifts Q turned to Bond. “Before we go,” he said “I need to adjust one of the cameras in the parking garage.”


	4. Chapter 4

“What did you mean by that parting comment?” Q asked Bond later that evening. They were tucked into the corner booth of a restaurant in Chelsea, heads bent close over the remains of their meal, the smell of curry and cardamom lingering in the air. 

Bond leaned back, removing his hand from where it rested on Q’s knee to cross his arms. “Maxwell only made it five years as 002.” he said.   
Q smiled, “As opposed to your decades?” He gently chided, “Five years is a lifetime to some. Many wouldn’t blame him for wanting to do something else.”  
Bond frowned, “That’s the thing. He didn’t want to do anything else with his life. It wasn’t his choice to retire as a 00. It was M’s….the previous one, before Mallory. She didn’t like the way he operated. Most of us didn’t.”

Q cocked his head surprised. 00s were almost famously tolerant of each other and notoriously neutral in public opinion about the way each chose to conduct their bloody business. It wasn’t an easy job, everyone knew that, and they were an elite cadre who, at the end of it all only had each other for true company and understanding. While they might joke and jibe at each other about missions some things just weren’t discussed: the way 001 balked at shooting a man in the back even though it had nearly cost him his life several times, how 003 preferred poison to any other weapon even though it often meant her missions would drag out for weeks waiting for a window of opportunity, or how 008, a happily married man and father of 2 refused to seduce any target, male or female as a means of completing a mission. The job was the job and Q had always thought that, to preserve their own sanity, most 00s were intentionally shy of peering into the shadows of their own souls, let alone closely examining those of their fellows. 

Except apparently in this case. Something Maxwell Levy had done during his stint as 002 was clearly weighing on Bond. Q, raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him.   
Bond sighed, “It wasn’t anything in particular. More like a lot of little things. I know it’ll be rich to hear me say this but we’re given freedom from so much and Maxwell took advantage of that. Oh it was always for the mission of course. Drugs, sex, collateral damage, children, there wasn’t a line he wouldn’t cross, a tool he wouldn’t use and then abuse. It would follow him home too. I lost track of the number of times police got called to his flat. M made it all disappear of course. Off the record. But eventually she had had enough of it and so did his wife. M ordered for his retirement from the service and his wife left and took their daughter with her.”

He shook his head and uncrossed his arms. Resting a hand on the table where it lingered briefly for a moment before he began fiddling with his fork, soft light glinting off of the silver times. “I know what they say about me Q. That I’m generally considered the worst of the 00s. That I’ve been one for so long that I don’t even know who I am underneath anymore. That I’ll do anything to finish a mission but believe me, you never knew Maxwell, but he was worse by tenfold…” Bond trailed off and briefly glanced up at Q, meeting his eyes and quirking a sad, self-deprecating smile.

The younger man reached out, placing his hand over Bond’s own, softly stilling its movement, before kissing him softly. “One day you’ll have to tell me who “they” are.” He said, “I don’t think they know you half so well as they think do.”

Bond grinned, crow’s feet crinkling around his blue eyes. “Perhaps you’re right.” He said softly.

~~~

In the street outside, shrouded in the beginnings of a cold October drizzle Maxwell Levy stood, cloaked in the shadows of the entry of a shop long since closed for the night. He could just barely see the couple in the corner booth, gold light streaming through the window to light up the desolate night. He watched as they sat, foreheads pressed together, hands intertwined, lingering over the last of their meal and in the darkness he smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

Q sighed and checked his watch as he stood on the corner. He was early. The morning had been a bit of an unmitigated disaster. First, James had been pulled out of bed well before dawn by a phone call. Not one but two of the junior agents on the night shift of MP Levy’s surveillance team had been sent home with food poisoning and a third on the day shift would be unavailable for duty as he had just had to take his daughter to the A&E with a broken arm. James left to fill in the gaps in the schedule until agents could be repurposed from other teams. 

Normally this was a duty that would have been considered well beneath a 00 but Bond was still on “restriction” and had been told not to leave London as the investigation into his part in the failed hostage rescue of Levy’s daughter continued. Q had managed to go back to sleep only to be awakened a short time later by the sound of Turing vomiting on the jumper which he had laid out for the day. Then, after he had decided there was no point in trying to sleep any further he had stumbled into the kitchen to find that he had used the last of his stash of Earl Grey yesterday and had forgotten to stop by the market on the way home from work. 

So Q stood in the damp grey morning light, wisps of fog from the Thames still lingering on the chilly London air, shook his watch, and sighed again. He was twenty minutes early for MI-6’s scheduled meeting with Levy to discuss a new plan that involved using the MP as bait to draw out the SLF cell that was clearly hidden somewhere within the city. He looked across the street to the small coffee shop tucked on the first floor of the building that housed the MP’s penthouse. At least he wouldn’t have to attend the meeting without caffeine in his system. 

The shop was warm and bright, the gleaming chrome was perhaps a bit too modern for Q’s taste, he had always thought that places serving tea should have a more old worldly appeal, but he had smiled slightly as he shouldered the door open and a bright bell had jingled above his head. He juggled his own cardboard cup of London Fog, appropriate he had thought for the day, as he attempted to add cream to the cup of dark roast he had bought for James while attempting to prevent his messenger bag from sliding to the ground. 

Succeeding at last Q closed the lid on the coffee and with a cup in each hand shrugged to hitch his bag higher on his shoulder as he turned around directly into the man behind him. As he stumbled, he felt himself lose his grip on James’ drink and watched in slow motion as it bobbled from his hand. He bit back a frustrated groan as a quick, lean hand darted out and snagged the cup before it had a chance to hit the ground. Q looked up to thank the man and found himself staring directly into the cool grey eyes of Maxwell Levy. 

“Careful there,” Levy chuckled, presenting the cup back to him with a small flourish. “Wasting caffeine in that way would have been quite the sin.” He frowned slightly, observing the cup, “I would have guessed you were a tea drinker.”

Q took the offered drink, being careful to ensure that his fingers avoided Levy’s during the transfer. He thought he caught a flash of disappointment in the older man’s eyes at that but it was gone so fast that he might have imagined it. “I am,” he said, indicating the cup in his other hand with a slight raise, “This one is mine.”

Levy smiled raising an eyebrow, his tenor light, “Good to know then that despite all of these years I’ve not quite lost my skills of observation.” He turned as the barista called out his name, taking his own gently steaming cup from the counter and deftly securing the lid before turning back to Q. “I love the coffee here,” he offered. “It’s probably the best in the city, sometimes I think I might have chosen to live in this neighborhood for that reason alone.” He shook himself slightly, voice regaining a more business-like tone, “Come on, I’ll get the door for you, you clearly have your hands full and somehow I have a feeling we’re headed in the same direction.”

Q found himself staring slightly as he watched Levy weave his way through the increasing crowd in the shop towards the door. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that this was nearly a completely different man from the one he had met a few nights prior. Gone was the crackling energy he had possessed as he had pinned Q against the counter in his flat. 

The danger was still there, Q could see it, as he watched Levy spin out of the way of a woman dodging out of line to grab for an unruly toddler who was attempting to make a break for freedom. He could see it in how Levy angled his body slightly to better take in the police officer who had just entered the shop, eyes flickering briefly to the baton in the man’s belt as he stepped around him to open the door with a soft tinkle. He turned back casually, shoulders rippling under the dark blue Henley that he wore untucked from a pair of jeans and gestured for Q to follow, flourishing again, slightly ironically, as he stepped to the side holding the door open. 

Q willed his feet to move as he exited the shop, mentally berating himself for the moment he had spent caught up in the man’s magnetism. He knew better than to fall for that. He rolled his eyes, once a double O always a double O, they couldn’t even seem to turn it off, but inside he couldn’t help but be a bit disturbed. Who was the real Maxwell Levy he wondered? The powerful politician striding down the steps of parliament? The dangerous, hedonistic ex-agent that Bond had warned him against? Or the man who stood smiling softly as he closed the door behind Q, slightly mussed dark hair gleaming as the morning light began to break through the clouds? 

Q shuddered slightly, hoping that Levy would dismiss the motion as nothing more than a biproduct of the chilly air. He thought he knew the answer to that question. None of the men he had seen were real. His gut was telling him that Levy was playing a game, sliding in and out of personas like snake skins to see how they affected those around him and Q in particular. What Q couldn’t figure out was why.

~~~

Bond paced the generic “For Rent” office space on the 3rd floor that the MI-6 team had taken over to use as a command center, meeting space, and break room. Q was late which wasn’t like him. Tanner had arrived a few minutes earlier without the Quartermaster in tow and was now busily shuffling papers out of his brief case at the head of the conference table. Bond turned, frowning as the door to the office opened and Maxwell Levy entered chatting gently with the man behind him. His frown deepened as the Levy stepped aside revealing the second man to be Q. 

He took in the two men, noting the coffee cups with identical logos in their hands. He tried to erase the frown as Q crossed the space between them to offer him one of the cups but couldn’t quite succeed. Bond met the hazel eyes of the younger man, hidden beneath their dark framed glasses, noting the bags underneath. “Thank you,” he said softly as he took the cup, his gaze darting back to Levy as he intentionally allowed his fingers to linger over those of the Quartermaster’s. 

Across the room Bill Tanner cleared his throat and shuffled his papers loudly. “Well, if we’re all here,” he said officiously “Then let’s begin, I’ve got to be back at MI-6 by 9. We’ve got a very busy day ahead of us.”

Bond tried not to groan, sipping his coffee instead to hide his displeasure as he slid into of the leather conference chairs. He hated meetings. Twenty minutes later, as he listened to Tanner ramble on about the new set up, in which they were going to use Levy as bait at numerous public events in an attempt to draw the SLF out of hiding, he felt his stomach begin to rumble wetly. Bollocks, he thought, he was going to have to make sure the surveillance team threw out all of the condiments in the room’s fridge. Something in there was definitely going off…


	6. Chapter 6

Q frowned as he felt his phone buzz. It was just after eight o clock in the evening and he was curled up on the old beige couch in his apartment with Turing purring sleepily on his lap. He paused a minute to scratch the black cat softly behind the ears as he put down the copy of Practical Electronics he had been idly flipping through and reached for his phone. James had begged off their date that evening complaining of an upset stomach, which had surprised Q slightly. He would have sworn he had watched via CCTV as the man ate his way through a shocking number of 3rd world cuisines with nary a rumble but apparently whatever had been plaquing the rest of the security team had gotten to him too. 

As Q flipped the phone, resting on the arm of the couch, over he half expected the screen to contain a snarky message from Bond complaining and requesting Q make a pho run or something similar to prove his love. The man really was the worst invalid. His frown returned when he saw it was a text from Tanner instead.   
“The security system in Levy’s flat keeps alarming,” it read. “The surveillance team has already confirmed there’s no threat but they can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. Need you to go check it out.”

Q rolled his eyes, lithe fingers quickly tapping out a reply. “Send R, I’m off shift.”

His phone buzzed again almost immediately, like Tanner had already anticipated his response and had an answer keyed up and ready to hit send on. “Levy’s insisting it be you. Says he doesn’t trust anyone else and we need him happy. M says you can report late tomorrow to make up for it.”

“Shit,” Q cursed, gently sliding Turing off of his lap as he stood up. He winced slightly as he threw back the remains of the mug of tea that had been resting on the side table at his elbow, long since gone cold. The cat meowed sadly in his direction before snuggling deeper into the cushions. 

“I know,” he told Turing as he headed for the door, pausing a second to snag his jacket off of the coat tree, “I don’t want to go out either.” 

Q hissed slightly as he exited the building and the wind hit him, forcing him to turn up his collar as he hailed a cab. He was so going to bill MI-6 for this, he thought, might as well travel in style. If Levy pissed him off too much, he might even hack the payroll system, change himself from salaried to hourly, and then attempt to charge Tanner for his overtime as well. The door of the cab closed behind him with a snick as he gave the cabbie the address. The car pulled quietly away from the curve, bearing him, for the second time that day, towards the MP’s penthouse. 

~~~

The top floor hallway was dimly lit for the evening and quiet. Q had stopped by to check in with the security team on his way up to confirm what the issue was and that Levy was at home. Though, in retrospect, he though he would have preferred it if he had found the MP had gone out for the night to a gala, or a benefit dinner, or where ever politicos went. Then he could have simply had the team let him into the flat, fixed the issue, and been back in bed at a reasonable time. 

Q was surprised as he approached the penthouse to find the door cracked open, a shaft of soft yellow light pooling out across the hallway’s carpet like melting butter, and the smell of coffee wafting out from within. Clearly Levy was expecting him. Q rapped twice, lightly, on the partially opened door pushing it further ajar. The MP was on the far side of the flat, his tall, dark form silhouetted against the evening lights of Hammersmith, which twinkled like stars beneath him, the black ribbon of the Thames in the distance like an inverse sweep of the Milky Way. 

Despite the late hour he wore slacks and dress shoes, a jacket was carelessly discarded over the back of the couch, an inky stain pooled against the creamy leather. Levy’s collar was unbuttoned, no tie in sight, and his shirt sleeves had been rolled loosely up his forearms, revealing chorded muscle and a tan Q would have sworn was impossible during a London fall. 

Q cleared his throat loudly and stepped into the flat. Levy turned from the window, his lips quirking up into a half smile. “I know you’re there Quartermaster.” His tenor was light and amused, “Come in and shut the door behind you. We wouldn’t want any terrorists following you in from the cold, now would we?” 

The MP prowled forward into the light being emitted from the lone fixture in the open kitchen running along the side of the flat, pausing a moment to trail a hand along the white marble of the island, as if to remind Q of what had nearly occurred there just a bare handful of days ago. With deft fingers he snagged a pair of mugs from the shelf above the coffee pot, filling them both and depositing one in front of Q without consulting his guest. 

Q ignored the cup. He wasn’t certain what game the MP was clearly playing but the hair beginning to prickle on the back of his neck told him that he wasn’t going to like it. “I’m just here to fix the security system, Sir.” He said, hiding the effort it took to keep his voice even and flat as adrenaline began to trickle through his system, raising his heart rate. “The team says it’s been tripping the silent alarms since this afternoon. I’ll need to reset it from the master panel in the bedroom.” 

Q watched as something flashed deep within Levy’s eyes at the word bedroom, warning bells began clanging in his head, as he reached into his jacket and wrapped his fist around the pen he kept there. It was a little something he was prototyping for Q branch that he felt wasn’t quite ready for field deployment yet, an ordinary ball point pen casing that concealed an autoinjector similar to those used in epinephrine units but containing a heavy duty, and hopefully untraceable, sedative instead. He could practically hear James begging to be kitted out with one as he held it. 

“Well now,” Levy drawled, his voice husky “That’s quite the way to invite yourself into my life, you could have just asked Quentin.” 

Q felt his heart skip a beat and the hand around the pen erupted in a thin sheen of sweat as he took a step back from the MP. Levy smiled, shark like now, perfect white, practically American teeth on display like a military cemetery as he began his slow prowl forward again, this time directly towards Q.

“What?” He gloated. “Did you think that no one would find out that name? That you had left it behind when MI-6 took you in and you stopped doing black hat jobs and turning tricks to make ends meet up in Islington? The firm up there would love to have you back you know. If only so the boss can peel your skin off himself when he gets out of the prison that you put him in. But don’t worry, I won’t turn you over to him. I have much better plans for you.”

Q’s breath was coming in shallow pants now, as he fought against the tide of memories that Levy’s words were dragging up, his hand slipping along the pen in his pocket. He shot a quick glance at the cameras positioned up in the darkened corners of the room wondering if he could delay the MP long enough for the security team to intervene.

Levy followed his gaze and chuckled darkly, “Oh I wouldn’t worry about them interrupting us,” He drawled, slipping his phone from his pocket and thumbing it on so that Q could see him click a button on the interface displayed there. The lights on the cameras winked out. “Look, the alarms have stopped now." Levy said, "Clearly, you’ve done your job, fixed the system and now they’ll think you’re on your way home. Really, Quentin I expected it to be harder to spoof something designed by you. Intercepting those signals was child’s play.”

Sweat began to drip down Q’s back, hidden beneath his jumper. Maybe, he thought, if he could just get Levy close enough, he could jab him and then run for help. He shifted a step closer to the door, turning slightly a he attempted to conceal the movement with which he would draw the pen out of his pocket. He needed a distraction, maybe if he could just keep the man talking. 

“How do you know that name?” He gasped, sidling another step closer to the door. 

Levy smiled again, “That would be telling now wouldn’t it? Tell me instead, do all of your colleagues actually believe Q actually stands for Quartermaster? I’m disappointed.” 

The MP stopped his prowl forward, straightening. “Enough of this now. You’re not going to leave this apartment without my permission and you’re not going to stab me with whatever you’re so desperately trying to conceal in your pocket.” He held up his phone and wiggled it slightly at Q to emphasize his point. “If you do, I’m going to begin killing people using this, starting with the two agents on the security detail that fell sick last night and ending with Bond.”

Q froze, letting his hand slide out of his pocket. “You’re bluffing.” He spat, “Not even I could do that from just a mobile.”

Levy sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Really Quentin? That’s where you’re wrong. It’s not just a mobile.”

“Stop using that name!” Q snarled, mind racing as he began to circle in the opposing direction towards the night glossed windows of the penthouse, the lights of civilization twinkling below, so close and yet so incredibly far. Perhaps he could throw a chair through the window and signal his need for help, or maybe the security team would notice him there when they changed shifts. But the minute those thoughts crossed him mind he knew they were wishful thinking. He was alone, well and truly alone, and trapped in this flat with the MP. 

“I don’t think so,” said Levy. “Not unless you’re willing to call me what I want to be called. Tit for tat.”

“002 is in-“ 

“Macau. Yes, I know. Really Quentin. Some of us don’t need you to repeat yourself.” Levy interrupted. “Look, settle down, drink your coffee, and let’s talk about this like adults. Surely you’ll want to know the details. I did just beat you after all.” With a rasp of ceramic on stone he slid the coffee cup across the kitchen island in Q’s direction. 

Q stopped his circling and eyed the still steaming cup. Perhaps he could throw the scalding liquid in the MP’s face and then sprint for the door? That he decided was a more a reasonable course of action. Taking a deep breath to steady himself he crossed to the counter and wrapped his hands around the mug. Raising it to his mouth to take a feigned sip. 

“Alright,” he said, tossing his dark curls out of the way so that he could meet Levy’s eyes. “I’m listening. Impress me.”


	7. Chapter 7

Levy straightened, puffing up a bit with evident pride in the dim light of the kitchen, “What do you know of Novichok?” he asked the younger man.

Q tilted his head, voice acerbic “It’s a family of chemical nerve agents developed by the Soviets. Lethal in the milligram range via inhalation, skin absorption, or ingestion. Particularly famous for its use in 2018 to poison the Russian expat Sergei Skripal and his daughter and last August to poison Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny. Less publicly well known is the fact there have been at least three attempts to use it to assassinate Queen Elizabeth in the last two decades. Is that enough information for you or would you like me to begin reciting the chemical formulas for the different variations as well as the possible routes of synthesis?”

The MP grinned and clapped his hands like a delighted child, “Most excellent Quentin. MI-6 always did hire the best.” His grey gaze slid down to stare meaningfully at Q’s hands, locked in a white knuckled grasp around the still steaming ceramic mug. 

“Novichok is the exact reason you won’t be enacting the plan you’re clearly carefully considering to throw that hot cup of coffee in my face and rush off back into 007’s arms. Oh, don’t worry, I haven’t poisoned James yet. That would be so blasé and entirely to quick.”

Q forced himself loosen his grip around the mug and give a nonchalant shrug, like he had a dozen more plans in his back pocket ready to whip out at any moment, even as the constant burble of panic continued to rise inside his brain. He risked a glance at his watch, it had been twenty minutes, surely someone from the security would have noticed something was amiss by now?

Levy shifted slightly on his barstool, rising up a few centimeters to extract his mobile from his pocket before settling back down, thumbing the screen on, and wiggling it slightly in Q’s direction to emphasize his next words. “Here’s how this is going to go Quentin. From this moment on you work for me. Oh, you’ll still go in to MI-6, put on a good face serving Her Majesty and all of that but behind the scenes your mine. You’ll get me any files I ask for, hack anything I want, and subtly redirect any operations I choose or, like I said before I’ll begin killing the people you love.”

“Right now, 007 and Agents Harker and Patel are sitting at home with smart pills lodged in the lining of their stomachs filled to the brim with Novichok. If you try to escape from here, turn me in to MI-6, or so much as take a breath that I don’t like I’ll trigger the pills to release the poison using this.” He tilted the phone in Q’s direction, black case gleaming slightly as it caught the light. “Your friends would be dead before you could catch a cab on the street outside.”

Q felt his heart stutter a beat as he thought back to James cancelling their date that evening, the infamously hale 00 laid low and complaining of an upset stomach. Was Levy bluffing or was James suffering the side effects of his body trying to adjust to a foreign mass? Did Harker and Patel actually have cases of food poisoning like MI-6 had thought or were they in a similar situation like the MP was intimating? How would Levy have even pulled such a thing off?

Q’s mind began to race as he rifled through the possibilities before screeching to a halt in front of an image from that morning. Levy’s hand, nails manicured and scars littered across his knuckles, as he offered James’ cup of coffee back to Q with a flourish and a smile. Inwardly Q cursed. He was a fool. He’d been taken in by one of the oldest tricks in the book, the very same one he'd used on dozens of marks in his own youth.

He raised his eyes to meet the MP’s, hands releasing the mug in front of him and pushing it as far away across the counter as he could reach, like it was a snake that he had just realized that he had grasped the tail of. The older man nodded his approval, “That didn’t take too long for you to figure out. There might be some hope for you yet.” He raised an eyebrow paused to take a sip out of his own cup before continuing. 

“Now, just to move things along let’s cover all of the tedious what-if scenarios in an expedited manner. There are three ways the pill inside James gets triggered. The first is that I transmit a specific code to order that from my mobile. The second is I fail to transmit the main standby code every day. If the pill doesn’t receive the standby code at a specific time in each 24-hour period it automatically releases. The third is a bit more complicated, the program built into my mobile is pinging the pill every thirty minutes with a different minor stand by code. This code is encrypted and hopping via a spread spectrum, if the pill misses one of these pings, it releases.”

Q’s eyes took on a faraway gleam as he began to mentally run through the possibilities before Levy’s voice interrupted him.

“Really Quartermaster. It’s tedious watching you think. If you tell M what’s going on and elect to have me taken out via a sniper, I can’t give the main standby code at the designated point each day and James dies. If you try to stick him in a Faraday cage somewhere and remove the pill it will miss one of the minor pings, release and James dies. As a matter of fact, for his future missions I’d make sure he doesn’t spend an extended period of time in parking garages, on the underground, or anywhere else where mobile service is a bit shoddy. It’d be terrible to have an accident happen.”

The MP paused to take a breath before continuing, ticking off fingers the remaining points on his fingers. “If MI-6 captures me and tries to torture me into deactivating the pill you can’t ever be sure that the code I input is the correct one and not the trigger, once again James dies. Finally, if you piss me off in literally any way at all, I send the main activation code and James dies. Have we covered all of the potential scenarios?” 

With a casual movement that was anything but, Levy lowered his hands, folding them in his lap for a moment briefly before reaching out to thumb off the mobile still shining on the counter and sliding it back into his pocket. Q’s eyes followed the man’s gesture, eyes locked on the little device that had so quickly become the focal point of James’ doom. A cold rock of dread settled into his stomach as his mind ran through a dozen more permutations that Levy’ hadn’t voiced, discarding each one before finally settling on one overwhelming question. 

“Why are you doing this?” Q breathed aloud. Letting the question hang between them in the still evening air of the penthouse.


	8. Chapter 8

“Why wouldn’t I?” Levy countered. “If there’s anything being a 00 truly teaches you it’s how many doors to success are open out there if you only have the backbone to walk through them. It’s amazing how many players exist on the world scene that are willing to pay for someone with the ability to nudge a powerful government in their desired direction. I would say MI-6 does an excellent job of making introductions.

Q felt the pieces of a puzzle, that was oh so obvious now, falling into place around him. The swift rise of the SLF out of relative obscurity to the front of international terror, the kidnapping and then senseless death of the MP’s daughter in Khartoum, the vote on the African defence bill, how Levy had appeared to escape not one but two very public assassination attempts. 

Faster and faster the pieces whirled in his mind, linking together, a pattern emerging from the chaos that drove Levy’s star ever higher. He shuddered at the scope of the plot that was beginning to be revealed. How long had this been going on right under their noses? How much more was there that they hadn’t even seen yet? This was far too complex of a scheme for the MP to be acting alone. How deep did this rot go?

With a sick lurch Q’s stomach settled into place as he realized what he had to do. Even if he thought Levy was bluffing about the smart pills and he walked out of this room to M right now he had no proof about any of this. The MP had shown his hand to Q knowing that he had absolutely no way to back any of this up. MI-6 had been over the events in Sudan and the explosion on the steps of parliament with a fine-tooth comb. They hadn’t found anything to link Levy to them, to suggest that he had been anything other than an unfortunate victim. Even Q hadn’t suspected and none of them, including Q himself, had any idea what the end game was or how deep this rabbit hole went. 

And yet, here Levy was gloating to Q. The Quartermaster mulled this turn of events over. This was absolutely unnecessary. The MP could have easily continued his plot with no one the wiser, he had already proven to be an adept shadow master, an expert puppeteer moving the strings of one of the most powerful governments in the world to a tune that only he could hear. But Q supposed, deep down inside, every genius wanted an audience. Would Levy ever truly be satisfied with the brilliance of his plan if he didn’t have someone else to appreciate it? Q didn’t think so. 

In the same way some serial killers wrote notes to the press Levy was intentionally outing himself to a member of the intelligence community. He was on stage performing for the world, but the curtains were drawn, and in the wings, he had selected his audience of one. He had selected Q.

Why the MP had picked him for what, Q was sure, he thought of as a distinguished honor, Q didn't understand yet. He didn’t truly need Q’s help. While it was accurate to say that there were very few IT specialists in the world that could match Q’s levels of skill and potential for malfeasance, Levy had to already have at least one on his payroll if he had managed to dig up the past that Q had tried so very hard to bury. So why was Q here? 

He’d have been a fool to have missed the looks the older man shot him. The way his gaze had lingered on the curve of Q’s neck and followed his fingers as they had tapped over his keyboard with undisguised predatory intent. To ignore the way he had pressed Q up against the counter the first night they had met in this flat. But Q knew that half of the 00s tended to react to him in a similar manner, kept at bay a constant combination of Q’s technological threats and Bond’s own clear claim.

Q realized in that moment, beyond a doubt, that part of what had to make him so attractive to Levy was his relationship with James. While the other 00s recognized and were deterred by the thought of crossing the infamous 007. To Levy, it was clearly a challenge. The MP was a man who liked demonstrating his superiority and he intended to do just that in his selection of Q.

And so Q knew, with a feeling of dread what he had to do. He had to give Levy what he expected, what he wanted. He had to stay in this game, stay close to the MP, until he had figured out a way to free the man he loved and until he had gathered enough proof to ensure that when he forced Levy to his knees before M and offered MI-6 the head of a man, who it was whispered, was on the fast track to be the next Prime Minister, that it would be accepted. 

Q swallowed. He could do this. For James, for England, this was something he told himself he could endure. He could ignore the part of him that was screaming, small and far away, that he had promised himself, promised that he would never have to do something like this again. That he wouldn’t ever have to hold himself on his knees, beholden to the will of another, to secure the survival of himself and those he loved. That everything he had done in the years since leaving Islington had been to ensure that he never became that boy again. 

He slammed a cold iron door on that screaming voice in his mind, forcing it back into the dark from which it had come. With an act of will he locked the door and then threw a padlock on it for good measure, hearing the voice pounding its fists bloody on the other side, looking for escape. He could do this, he told himself again. He was the Quartermaster of MI-6 and the lover of the most dangerous 00 who had ever lived. He would do what ever was necessary to beat Levy at his own game.

He told himself it was entirely an act when he turned back to Levy, letting his spine slump softly in defeat and his thin shoulders hunch in on themselves beneath his heavy sweater. The very picture of a man who had realized there was no way out of his current situation but through. His voice was soft as he asked, “I suppose the SLF aren’t actually a real threat to you are they?”

Levy chuckled darkly, a spark lighting in his eyes as he took in the defeated Quartermaster before him.

“Not at all. They were a backwater tribe with barely a dozen AK-47s to their name when I met their leader for the first time while on an assignment. He’s so much better as a figurehead now, following everything I say for fear that I’ll kill his only son and heir with a press of a button in the same way I could kill your lovely 007. But they’re a useful group none the less. Every story needs a villain after all. A voting populace is so much easier to control if you can only give it something to unite against.”

Q took in that information, frowning as he filed it to mull over later. There was just one piece of the puzzle left that he didn’t fully understand. “I suppose the girl they kill in Khartoum then, she wasn’t really your daughter was she?” He guessed.

Levy’s grin broadened further, white teeth glinting in the soft light, his gun metal grey eyes flat as he smiled at Q. “Oh no,” The MP said. “She absolutely was.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is the start of the non-con in this fic and quite frankly I don't know when it will end. I'm sorry but I don't exactly have this all planned out and I'm just going where the story takes me right now. I'll try to come back here at a later point and update where you can jump to if you want to avoid it.

It took Q’s brain an inordinately long time to process those three final words. When he did his heart, which had already firmly lodged itself into his stomach, dropped into his boots with a wet slap. The man sitting before him, the handsome former SAS officer who he had inadvertently caught himself admiring just that morning, had had his own daughter killed for a reason Q could hardly begin to fathom. Was it for the money that would come from turning a vote in some lobbyist’s favor? To clear himself a path to the Prime Minister’s seat? So that he could spend a paltry few months or years as the golden boy of the kingdom’s political scene?

Q felt bile rise into his throat as he, for what seemed like the dozenth time that hour, reappraised the man sitting in front of him. It was becoming clear to him that Maxwell Levy was a being utterly without morals. Had he been like this before and MI-6 had missed it despite all of their field readiness tests and psychiatric examinations? Or had being a 00 truly broken him beyond repair? Q wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. 

Levy stood, the legs of the barstool scraping across the tile floor of the flat as he unfurled from his sitting position with leonine grace. Gone was the man, leashed by suit and tie, who led debates on the floors of parliament, shook hands at fundraising dinners, and held babies given to him by cooing mothers at public relations events. The game was revealed, the masks were off and Levy clearly felt he had no need to hide his true self from Q any longer.

With a single fluid motion, the MP swept both of their mugs off of the counter, depositing them in the stainless-steel sink with a clank, no doubt for some paid maid to take care of later, before turning back to Q.

“Well, this has certainly been a lovely evening,” He drawled, “Now let us test your understanding of the situation in which you find yourself. Stand up for me Quentin.”

Q could recognize a command when he heard one. Levy was making it abundantly apparent the role that he wanted the younger man to play. Q fought the urge to lean back into his seat, an urge he would have indulged if the command had come from 007 or even Tanner, just to show that he could. He stood with a careful movement, keeping his face neutral and his shoulders straight, the honed movement of a child trying not to catch the eye of a parent known for sudden and dangerous outbursts. 

“Excellent,” Levy purred stalking forward, circling Q until the quartermaster had to turn his back to the kitchen to keep the former 00 in sight. It was then that Levy closed the gap between them, crowding forward until Q felt the cold marble of the counter press against his backbone.

“Let’s try this again,” the older man breathed as he reached up to tangle his fist in Q’s hair, tugging sharply on the dark curls as he tilted Q’s head back in a parody of desire. Q hissed in pain as Levy’s mouth descended on his silencing him. The MP kissed like he was waging a war, taking ground with teeth and tongue, biting Q’s lower lip until both of them could taste the coppery tang of blood and Q at last opened his mouth to yield to the onslaught. 

Levy’s other hand snaked around Q’s side to grasp the counter, hemming the Quartermaster in as he ground their hips together once, then twice. Somewhere deep inside his mind Q felt the banging on that iron door frantically increase, behind it, far away, he could hear someone screaming. He felt the other man begin to stiffen along his though. Q's blood rushed, pounding in his ears as his breath came in shallow gasps. 

He smelled old beer and moldy carpet but he knew that wasn’t right. He was in London. He wasn’t back in Islington. He wasn’t back at one of the seedy bars run by The Firm. He couldn’t be. He’d gotten out. He’d escaped. Static began to fuzz out his thoughts. 

Then, before he’d had a chance to fully register it happening, cold air rushed in as Levy pushed away with a growl. The MP put space between them as he stood, his dark head down, evidence of his arousal clear in the dim light. Levy’s voice was hoarse, his breath coming in pants as he said, “You’ll break up with Bond. I won’t have his hands all over you. You’re mine now. Tell him you know what happened in Prague. That will do the trick. If I even so much as suspect you of throwing a glance in his direction I’ll make sure he’s dead before he gets a chance to leave the room. Is that understood?”

Q swallowed twice to wet his mouth; his hands were shaking as he stuck them into his pockets in an effort to hide them. “Yes,” he whispered.

Levy turned, pacing towards the windows of the penthouse. Silhouetted against the twinkling lights of London, he resumed a stance nearly identical to the one he had held when Q first entered the room what felt like years ago. “Get out!” His voice snapped out of the darkness. “I’ll contact you again when I want you.”

Q darted for the door, slamming it shut behind him. He didn’t remember descending in the elevator or hailing a cab. It wasn’t until he was safely in the back seat, the driver weaving amongst the evening traffic, that he reached up to blot the trickle of blood that had made its way to the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater. He looked at it there, the crimson staining the wool a dull brown in the flashes of the passing street lights and for the first time, in a long time, he realized that he had made a horrible mistake. 

~~~

Much later that night, as he lay curled up on the floor of his bathroom, the chill from the tile seeping up through his pajamas, Q heard his phone vibrate. He flipped it over wincing at the three missed texts and two missed calls from James that he had thumbed past an hour ago. The new message was from an unknown number. 

It read, “In case you’re starting to convince yourself that I was bluffing…” 

The phone buzzed again, an image icon popping up. Q’s empty stomach roiled as he clicked on it. It was a photo of row house. The front lit red and blue from the light of an ambulance parked at the curb. Two A&E workers loaded a stretcher into the van with a blanket shrouded form on it. In the background a young woman, of clearly Indian descent, cried while clutching a toddler to herself. 

The phone vibrated a third time. “I wonder if M will write Agent Patel’s obituary himself?” It asked. 

The device slid from Q’s hand and skittered off of the base of the toilet as he lunged for the porcelain rim, barely making it in time as his stomach rejected what little bile it still contained. The acid stung his gums which he had brushed raw in an attempt to rid himself of Levy’s taste. After the heaving stopped, he pulled himself, shaking, up to the sink where he fumbled for the tube of toothpaste to begin the cycle again.


End file.
